What You Don't Know
by potatotheturtle
Summary: World War Two AU. Matthew Williams is a seemingly normal young Canadian with a far from normal background- one that is partially kept a secret from him.
1. b o n j o u r

_/World War Two AU. Matthew Williams is a seemingly normal young Canadian with a far from normal background- one that is partially kept a secret from him. Against his Aunt Anastasia's wishes, Matthew becomes a pilot for the Canadian Air Force only six months after the war starts, for reasons that are far more dark, dangerous, and complex than he says they are. Matthew will soon learn everything that has been hidden from him, including information on his mother who passed away on a vacation to France, but, like everything in war, it comes with a price and a few consequences. And one of those consequences comes in the form of an "awesome" German pilot named Gilbert Beilschmidt./_

* * *

 **What You Don't Know**

One story: Many voices

 _By: The Ones Left Behind_

 _Hallo. Schön, Sie zu treffen._

 _Yes, I'm German. (Well, I actually consider myself Prussian, but that's not what's important at the moment.)_

 _Yes, I was a German pilot during World War II. No, I will not disclose my name. Call me Great Frederick, or Fritz for short, after King Frederick II of Prussia._

 _Yes, this story will be in third person, besides my occasional notes. Why?_

 _Because this memoir isn't about me. (Well, it mostly isn't.)_

 _This is the story of a man named Birdie, a brilliant pilot in the Canadian Air Force during World War II, and how I fell in love with him. A man. The enemy._

 _I know. It's crazy. Not only did I fall in love with someone of my same gender, but with someone on the opposing side of war._

 _Fuck, I'm already crying._

 _You've probably never heard of him, which is sad, because he's one of the most brave, compassionate, strong, intelligent, and remarkable people I've ever known. He's pretty awesome too. He saved hundreds of lives and is responsible for so much that he will never be honoured or awarded for because his name cannot be disclosed. (Yes, I was lying when I said that his name was Birdie, just in case you didn't know. That was the nickname I called him.) All of the names in this book have been changed for privacy purposes._

 _Damn privacy purposes._

 _The best I can do is write this book and let everyone know what this man has done, even if no one will never know his name, and he'll probably won't make it into the history textbooks of the future._

 _It's okay though because you don't need to know a name to know someone. To learn their experiences and understand them._

 _Names don't matter. That's something I've learned multiple times throughout this chapter of my life, and something you'll learn once you finish reading this if you haven't already._

 _Now before you read this book, it is best to know that this isn't going to be your typical love story. This isn't some happy fairytale to read to your little children as they are bundled in their beds about to sleep. No wizards. No potions. No castles. No magical true love's kiss. No mystical creatures. No riddling trolls (unless you count that prissy Austrian bastard. Him and that Brit are such fuddy-duddies). No witches (unless you count gender confused frying pan chick, but she kinda saved my life once so I probably shouldn't say that, right? I would say that she fits under the "badass warrior" category with Birdie, but she's in love with that prissy Austrian piano dude and it's so unawesome.)_

 _The only princesses in this will be a dramatic sassy Polish (wo?)man, a sarcastic British spy, and a long-haired Frenchman with an unshaved stubble. The only magic will be the delusions of the said sarcastic British spy when he's drunk. The only miracle will be that Birdie didn't kill me, especially after my terrible puns._

 _The only faraway lands will be foreign countries, battlegrounds, and cities blown unrecognisable. The only carriages are the wheeled gernies and hospital beds that escort dead bodies. The only glass slippers left behind are the contents of this book, an unreadable pancake recipe, a burnt stuffed bear, a couple of bruises, and something other than a glass slipper that has shattered. The only flying horses will be metal fighting planes that get their wings blown off and crash to the ground in a pile of blood and smoke and orange and red and black._

 _And the only knight in shining armour will be the awesome me._

 _Okay, the only actual knight in shining armour of this story is Sir Birdie. I would never say that if he was still alive though. (Oh yeah, did I mention that the love of my life is dead? Well now you know.)_

 _Yeah, spoiler alert! This book contains no "happily ever afters"._

 _(Is this whole book going to be a rollercoaster of inside jokes and pure darkness and tragedy? No. Of course not. It will also include puns. Duh.)_

 _Okay, so I suppose that this is a sort of fairytale, but a very dark, twisted, and screwed up one, just like how fairytales originally were. Did you know that the little mermaid killed herself in the original by Hans Christian Anderson?_

 _Let me try to reword this. This memoir of Birdie's life will not be sugarcoated with lies or morphed to cradle your fragile feelings. This is going to be honest. This is going to be painful. This is going to be difficult. (It'll also be pretty awesome though.)_

 _This is going to be a journey._

 _I'll be here the whole way through though, with a plate of pancakes and a stuffed bear for you. I'll even give you a hug through the pages. Why? Because I know what it's like. I experienced it in real life and I understand what it will be like to read this._

 _The words on these pages will make you think. It will challenge your beliefs. It will make you laugh, cringe, smile, melt, scream, and cry._

 _Well, at least, that's what writing this book has made me do. It's what Birdie made me do._

 _You're probably wondering, "How did you write this book if Birdie's dead?"_

 _That brings me to another important fact. This book isn't just written by me. These are the words of the dozens of different people who knew Birdie, including Birdie himself. This also is just one book of a series about these real life experiences, all written by us- those who were left behind. The whole series is on those we knew who were lost, all interlaced and connected into one single story._

 _We collected journal entries, records, letters, and notes. We interviewed every little person that came in contact with them. We shared stories. We wrote. And I was in charge of piecing Birdie's story together- dozens of voices. One story._

 _Welcome to What You Don't Know._


	2. u n j o u r

『 _ **Actual Author's Note:** For convenience, all of the names in this chapter are the actual names of the characters. In reality, as Gilbert said though, Matthew is called "Birdie" and everyone else has nicknames or fake names._』

* * *

 **chapitre un:**

 _•un jour•_

 _Bonjour. I'm German and I just started the first chapter of this book in French. (Verdammt, Potato brother, I'm PRUSSIAN not German. That's the last time I'm letting you edit.) [Potato brother: 1.) Prussia stopped being a country in 1871, and it is now a part of the German Empire, so you are actually German. 2.) You can barely type right now and you need rest, so I'm editing.] (The Awesome Me: 1.) PRUSSIA LIVES. 2.) I'M FINE.) I don't usually speak or write in French because it's not my native language or even my secondary language, so I haven't nearly perfected it yet. However, I thought it was appropriate to at least start and end these chapters in French because that was the primary language Birdie used. He was fluent in English, but whenever he was with his family, he had always only usually used French._

 _He also once told me that most of his thoughts were in French, so by adding this little bit of language, it's like having him embrace the chapter with the arms of his little French-Canadian soul around each end- start and finish. That was a weird analogy._

 _I really want you to feel connected to this story. Though I wrote these words, they essentially belong to Birdie. This is the only way I know how to make him live on. In memory. If I can't create new memories with him, I'll just keep reliving old ones. I'll never get tired of them._

 _As you can tell, I'm still struggling to move on. Just look at my cluttered room, stacks of dirty laundry, untamed hair, and scattered tissues. I'M USUALLY A CLEAN FREAK. ASK ANYONE. The other two musketeers came over to check on me today and I swear that their jaws dropped to the floor when they saw the state I was living in._

 _It appears that the only constant thing is the beer in my hand. It's already my second one I've had while writing this._

 _Everything is still fresh but it feels like I've been grieving forever and can never stop. It's been about three months (at the time I'm writing this chapter) since he died, though it feels like it has been three years. This will hopefully act as a journal to help me through this though._

 _I just really don't know how I could ever move on. How anyone who knew him or what he did could._

 _I wonder if even you'll have a hard time moving on. I know you don't actually know him, but you'll feel like you do throughout this._

 _Anyways, enough with these lame emotions. I deal with them too much already._

 _I'll add notes throughout the story. I'll try not to interrupt so much, but anyone who knows me knows that I really can't keep my mouth shut (as you can probably tell by my rambling right now)._

 _Birdie always did say I was "so loud". I always said that it was because I needed to balance him for being "so quiet"._

 _My notes will be marked by those star things (*) because they look like snowflakes, which remind me of Birdie, and will be in this slanted letter format because it makes up for my lack of elegance._

 _That isn't specific enough. What're those called again?_

 _Okay, thank God for smart people. I've just been informed by my brawny younger brother that the lazily designed sparkle thingy mabobbers are named asterisks (more like half-assterisk snowflakes) and the tipsy drunk letters are called Italics._

 _You learn something new everyday. Even the awesome me does. (I know right. Shocked.) Usually if the Brit with a stick up his arse ever knew that I just used such atrocious grammar, he would kill me, but now I'm lucky enough to happen to be friends with his new lover or something, so I'll probs be saved._

 _As I mentioned earlier, Birdie used French in his household. Note that all of the conversation in this chapter was spoken originally in this language and is in English to fit my own language barriers for my own convenience. Birdie and Fancy-Pantsy would be so disappointed._

 _For those of you who don't have a little yellow canary or a slightly hairy French Fry (ew, that's actually a really gross image) in your life to teach or translate French for you, welcome to Chapter One: One day._

Matthew remembered the expression on his aunt's face when Canada entered World War II.

It was September 10th, 1939, exactly nine days after Germany invaded Poland. It came as no surprise to many. England had declared war the day prior, and France before that, so the Parliament of Canada quickly took action and joined in to support its fellow allies.

Which was why his aunt wasn't shocked. Anastasia Williams had been apprehensive of the news for the entire past week, but she was calm about it, not because she wasn't worried but because she was too used to war to really give a damn anymore, like a prisoner who had numbed to chronic beatings and went from a scream or shout each lash to a grunt or a jolt- silence or a twitch of their back- with each whipping.

Still, Matthew could see the faraway distant look in her eyes, and for those nine long days after the invasion of Poland, she was living in another world, another time. She had gone back to 1914, when she was forced to become an adult at the age of 14- for there was no room for being a kid in war- all the way to 1918, when she died for the first time in her life when her father and brother passed away on the hellish bridge of no man's land.

Aunt Anastasia was reliving it all over again because now there was a possibility that her family's history would repeat. She was less afraid for herself and more for her nephew, who was just the prime age to be a soldier. Oh how she prayed to the gods that there would be no draft, like the one they had in France that fated her family to a road of death, pain, trauma, grief, and poverty.

As soon as the news spread, Anastasia had refused to let Matthew and his fraternal twin brother, Alfred, who lived in the U.S. with their father and stepmother, to enter the war. She wanted the Allies to win just as much as everyone else in her country, but like all who had lived during the Great War just over two decades prior, they were reluctant. It was if their generation as a whole had taken a spoonful of piping hot soup, thinking that it was cooled, and now were more hesitant after scalding their sensitive tongues, taking the tiniest sip or testing the temperature with the tip of their finger to make sure it was cool enough the second time they checked.

However, despite Anastasia's wishes, six months after Canada joined the war, Matthew Williams had become a pilot for the Canadian Air Force behind his aunt's back.

It was one week after that, on a Sunday morning, that he sat at their cheap, ancient, and scratched oak dining room table, on the East side of the house with the sun climbing the horizon out of the huge arched window, bordered with white curtains, as he guided Aunt Elaine's delicate hands, worn from using them as a substitute for her sightless eyes, to her silverware. He watched Anastasia as she read from a thick, dusty novel that was written in her native language, French, over her wire spectacles. The boy never lied to Anastasia- this woman who had taken care of him as if she were his real mother, when his biological one, Genevieve, had passed away during a trip to France when he was twelve years old, supposedly from the same illness that her mother and younger brother had (Matthew could only assume that this meant it was genetic).

So something inevitably tugged at Matthew's heart. Guilt. Anger. Nostalgia. Anticipation. A twinge of excitement. Doubt. The replaying of the serious words that came from the mouth from a far from serious man. A key and a sealed envelope in your mother's penmanship. The ticking clock of a bomb as the seconds counted down.

' _Ten Mississippi. Nine Mississippi…_

 _Eight Mississippi. Seven Mississippi..._

 _Six Mississippi. Five brief sentences…_

 _Four chaotic years. Three related deaths…_

 _Two possible paths..._

 _One damn final decision…_

 _Zero tickets back_.'

An engine combusted into vibrant flames and clouds of smoke spontaneously, showering debris all over a wet, moonlit cobblestone road and lighting up Paris in vermillion and the scent of gasoline. Everything burst inside of Matthew. He blurt out the news. The practiced, rehearsed, and final news.

His two aunts completely froze.

Elaine fell silent, blind milky white eyes piercing the air in front of her and pale bony fingers caged around her fork, hanging it mid-air with a chunk of pancakes sliding from the clutches of the prong, dangling like Elaine's slack jaw, dripping syrup like the tears that clung to the corners of her eyes. The news was so sudden that it sucked all of the strength from her hand so that her fingers unraveled from the silver scratched body of the silverware and let it stumble off her frozen thumb and clash against her ceramic plate with a clang. She held her breath to keep back the thoughts that attempted to escape and nodded once in obedient acceptance, as she usually did. Twice. Thrice. Gulp. A small kind smile from thin pink lips.

"That's wonderful, darling. I know that all of Canada will be safe in your hands." She patted Matthew's shaking hands and returned to her reserved, overly polite, and restrained self. She was more positive than her sister, though she was blind and one would assume that she looked at life in a negative way, since she couldn't see the beauty in the world. Not having her sight just made her all the more understanding and grateful for the little things.

Anastasia was silent the whole time. Nerve-wrackingly silent. She was stone frozen and no one could tell her emotions until she suddenly broke the overly polite white lies Elaine sung and the tense cloud that seemed to loom over the dining table for hours. She slammed her palm down onto the countertop, asking, " _How could you?_ "

Matthew jumped at the booming voice, and he trembled slightly as he saw tears begin to trail down her round cheeks. He expected that this would happen, knowing his aunt's past. Nevertheless, he had never made anyone cry before besides his brother when he was younger (* _-and that one time he totally smashed his "perfect athlete brother" at hockey. He told me to never tell anyone about that, but he's dead now so... Damn tears. Always making my awesome face wet and smearing my inked words. Mein Gott. Rude._ *) as he knew of, and at this new unfamiliar sight, he couldn't help but feel the guilt continue to rise in his chest.

This had to be done though.

The next few moments went in a dazed blur. His aunt stormed out the front door, sobbing now, and fled to an unknown location to clear her mind.

* _There were no accounts as to what happened between then and that night, but based on the anxious pacing and crashes Elaine heard from his bedroom, his bear that was found damp with tears, and this unfinished journal entry that was found crumbled and under his bed, I think you can assume what happened in that short timespan. You'll probably even understand more in the following chapters._

 _This, my amigos (I actually remembered something Tomato Lover taught me! Birdie would be so proud. Damn, the tears are back. Gratias.), is where our story begins. Well, sorta. You'll see. Time isn't represented in a linear path of chronological events in this book (I used big words. I gotta tell Arthur)._

 _I'm getting off topic. Again. This is why I never imagined myself ever writing a book._

 _Let's continue._

 _Also, just for fun, let's include an interruption counter. I'm a depressed man with nothing better to do but write this and cry, so let's make this a game. Pause. Get a piece of paper. A pencil, pen, broken crayola crayon, or whatever. Write how many times you bet I'll interrupt this chapter. It'll be fun. Don't throw this paper away though. You'll need it._ *

That night, when Anastasia returned, she found Matthew laying in his twin bed, which he had grown out of, causing his feet to jut over the edge, with nothing but air and the ground below them. The blonde had been trying to fall asleep, but had found himself unable to so with all of his racing thoughts that reflected on everything that had happened on that eventful day, so he was awake when she entered.

Aunt Anastasia crept silently into his bedroom and knelt beside his frame, stroking his silky golden hair with her long slender fingers. Matthew, who wanted to avoid conversation, pretended to be asleep, but even though he was a far better liar and actor than his brother, his aunt saw the slightest twitching of his lips and heard his unsteady breathing, and she knew that he was awake.

She nudged him with such gentleness that contrasted her earlier behaviour, her lips curled into a small smile. "Matthew, put on your shoes." Matthew could tell that she had calmed down and was back to herself.

Two minutes later the two stepped outside into the chilly Spring air of Ontario- Matthew in his red plaid pyjamas and robe and Aunt Anastasia still in her oversized green canvas coat that used to be her father's, brown leather oxfords, white blouse, and waist-high pleated flannel kaki trousers- a gentle zephyr wafting through their blonde and brunette locks. Owls hooted, crickets chirped, and cicadas croaked songs into the crisp night air, creating a soft symphony as their echoing footsteps and steady breathing kept time to the nocturnal music that filled the silence.

Both wondered when the other was going to speak, but neither did so themselves, as if by muttering a word they may shatter the fragile reality around them and everything would spiral out of control, like the world had done ever since 1914.

Matthew observed the woman beside him. Her worn hands recorded her history and life: paper cuts from flipping the pages of a novel a little too eagerly, a pink scar crafted into the skin of her left hand from her days spent engineering. They were tender like her expression when she cared for her patients, swift and angled like her movements and thoughts, scratched against the Earth from hiking adventures, constantly racing as if time was running out, and old, but strong, from carrying the weight of her family. They were wild like her personality, and animated when her passion or excitement or emotion flowed from her throat, through her veins, and to her rusting wrists, shooting to the ends of her calloused fingertips, causing them to gesticulate as she danced the words that flew rapidly off her tongue.

These pair of books that told her whole history were now hidden and stuffed into the large patched pockets of her coat.

The woman had a short bob of chocolate-coloured finger waves that swayed with every step, a loose curl of hair tucked back behind her ear with a makeshift metal bobby pin that had been bent out of shape countless times to pick the locks when she forgot her keys (which she did often) and perhaps to unlock something else, something that Matthew was unaware about. She looked young for a woman of her age. Well, at least in Matthew's opinion. He didn't see any grey hairs unless he got up close, and her skin lacked any early forming wrinkles, despite the fact that she was stressed for the majority of her life, because her countless smiles and fits of laughter probably always reversed those affects. She was a woman of average height- about 5 foot, 7 inches- her body constructed of sharp angles and thick thighs and muscular long legs and rosy skin, and her face crafted from round cheeks and a bridge of freckles that dotted the underside of her eyes, ran from one ear to the other, and rounded over her flat nose, which barely had a bridge to hold her reading spectacles and was simply a round bump above her full lips, which were painted with a scarlet lipstick- the only makeup she ever wore- to make a "statement". Her eyes were raging storms, wild, animated, moving, fast, and a marriage of blue and grey.

Anastasia was the first one to speak. "I'm sorry, Mattie." Her grey eyes remained focused in front of her, ears dusted pink from the nipping cold.

Matthew glanced over, surprised by the sudden sound of the voice- rich in a guilty tone and laced in her French accent- that snapped him back to reality. By looking into those serious slate irises, devoid of their usual glow, and her nonchalant expression, red lips tucked into a thin line, Matthew knew that she was serious and had pondered on this for a while now. She rarely looked this grim. His aunt was usually lively, exuberant, adventurous, wild, cheery, and halcyon like his twin brother, Alfred.

Like his mother, Genevieve. No one ever spoke of her though. Not after all that had happened. (* _Birdie often told me that he worried Alfred would end up like his biological mother because they were so alike._ *)

Matthew bit his lip and focused his gaze back in front of him, letting the clopping of his aunt's heels and scuffing of his loafers create noise to fill the pause he took as he thought about what to say.

"It's okay," he lied. He had done a lot of lying lately, and would have to continue to do so for years to come. "I understand," he said softly, letting his words die off with the wind. He was never one for words. He was quiet, and in these few moments in which he was expected to fill the silence, he felt like a hopeless fisherman trying to catch a fish.

"Do you?" She asked, though the words didn't come out harsh. Instead, she spoke them softly, like a teacher kindly trying to help their student understand something and guide them through their mistakes.

Even if he was lying about all of this, the answer was still the same. He let his head drop, exhaling a sigh with a puff of air. The simple motion spoke his answer- No, I don't- and his aunt smiled softly, indicating that he was correct.

"I understand though," she whispered (* _Little did she know that she was unusually far from understanding the situation_ *). "I understand you all too much. Which is why I was angry. I see you in me."

This caused Matthew to slow down his long strides and glance sideways at Anastasia in confusion, an eyebrow raised and his eyes dancing in thought and curiosity as he waited for an explanation. A sense of fear rose in him. _Did she know what he was really doing?_

"You always say that you and your brother 'ave nothing in common, but this just proves that that's quite the opposite." She chuckled dryly to herself. "You both want to be 'eroes, just like I did."

Matthew sighed silently in relief and pushed his askew glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I don't want to be a hero though."

She shook her head. "Yeah, you do, Mattie," she said a matter-of-factly. "You just don't want the glory or fame of it all. You don't care about being called a 'hero', as Alfred does, but you both 'ave an undeniable desire to want to 'elp others."

Matthew didn't deny it. It was true, even if she didn't know the full situation. This woman could only know lies and yet still be able to conjure up some facts. "You wanted to be a hero too?"

"Indeed." Anastasia skipped for a few steps like a child, though her mind was really beyond her years. "I did all I could to participate in the war effort and I still don't know if it was enough."

"It was more than enough. You saved lives, Anastasia."

Anastasia shrugged. "I won't keep you from fighting in the war. If we all stayed behind in fear, nothing would be done. Some people 'ave to be the heroes. And you'll make a fine one at that," she said. She glanced at Matthew before tilting her head back to smile at the stars. "You're mighty brave, Matthew."

Matthew looked up at the stars as well, letting them gaze for a few meters before he broke the comfortable silence. "I know, Ana," he whispered.

* _Too brave, Ana._

 _He was too damn brave._ *

"At least you are a pilot and not a foot soldier." It was more like she was talking to herself than her nephew.

"I'm doing more by being in the Air Force." Oh how the lies just kept falling out. His words were so true and so false at the same time. He could probably do the most he could by being in the Air Force, but that isn't why he joined. Neither is his love for flying or the sky. It was something more.

There was a long pause. Anastasia pulled Matthew down onto a patch of dry grass in a field by the pavement. Dandelions and daffodils lacked their full vibrant colour in the purple umbras of night, but the ones that the moonlight casted directly on in the dark field looked as if they were illuminating.

The two laid on their backs, grass crunching beneath them, and star gazed silently together. In that single serene moment, the war and Matthew's lies drifted away until they felt so distant, and both knew that it would be okay.

Whatever happened, even if the truth never came out, they would be okay, as long as the stars were there above them.

It was a cloudless night and because of the little air pollution in the countryside, one could see so many stars that they were like grains of salt sprinkled randomly across a dark quilt blanket. The two could point out every constellation in their minds, and they held a conversation about these formed pictures in the sky with their eyes only. They held a silent look that said, ' _Remember?_ '

And Matthew did remember. So did Anastasia. His aunt had taught him how to spot all of the constellations when he was just a boy and when they had read all of their books from the library or didn't feel like going to the ice skating rink nearby. They once laid in the same spot, seven years earlier, with Alfred. It was nearly midnight, they ate a late night snack of chocolate chip pancakes- " _This one time_ ," Anastasia had said, " _but you have to make sure you two brush well_."- and they were all in their pyjamas (except for Alfred of course, who wasn't used to the cold weather and had brought both a coat and blanket along).

"I'll miss you, Ana." The words lingered in the air.

"I'll miss you too, Mattie." Her eyes darted to the constellation of Leo, Matthew's horoscope. "When you miss me, just look at the stars. Though we may be miles apart, we are still under the same sky, and we will take turns gazing upon the same stars."

"We'll send messages." Matthew shot a silly smile, a sign that he was about to say something he thought was funny. "I'll look into the sky and think of something to tell you, and when you look into the stars the following night, they will magically send you my message." His soft chuckle and Anastasia's loud and boisterous laugh echoed into the night.

"Yes! That method is so much more quick and efficient than sending letters. It also takes a lot less effort!" Anastasia added dramatic hand motions for the effect. Her eyes lit up. "That's a bloody brilliant idea!" She said in a terrible mock British accent.

Matthew leaned closer and excitedly rambled in a hushed voice (* _which I didn't even know was possible. I thought that if he spoke any quieter he might as well not be speaking._ *), pretending as if they were speaking about some huge revolutionary secret. "Even better- maybe we can try to move the stars with our mind, and make them form messages." He had just quoted Alfred, who had once said the exact thing that night so many years ago. Their laughter died down as nostalgia nipped at it. They both reflected on that time when Alfred went on and on about becoming the first superhero to use stars to save people.

Anastasia chuckled. "Alfred..." She sighed. The simple mention of his name spoke hundreds of words. "Does he know?"

"No, and I think it's for the best that he doesn't." Matthew wound a few thick blades of grass between his fingers. He didn't want to lie to anymore people than he had to.

She shook her head. "Yeah. He'd probably hitch a ride here just to join the Canadian Air Force and fight by your side. Either that or he would be so determined to protect you and be the hero that he would take your place and tape you to the wall to prevent you from getting a single paper cut."

"He's indeed a reckless soul." Matthew's chest shook with laughter.

"Honestly, I was first thinking of trying to join too when I heard the news of the war. I was the one who taught you how to fly after all."

"Why not try?"

Anastasia shook her head, as if the answer should've been obvious. Matthew didn't live a sheltered life, but his optimism sometimes made him a bit endearingly clueless. "For starters, I'm a woman and though I probably 'ave more experience piloting and navigating and know how to engineer a lot of different machinery, they would probably never let me fight in the war as a pilot. At least not yet. They might if things start getting desperate. 'Owever, even then, I still have people here who need me: Elaine, Theodore, Charles, Annie, and Lincoln. After all, I bring the majority of the income into this household."

"You know more than me. You're older and wiser. That isn't fair." Matthew knew it wasn't fair, and it was almost childish the way he said this. He knew all of this and witnessed everything first hand, but yet he believed that he would never quite get used to the injustice and wrong in the world.

"It's life. I raised you and Annie to 'ave open minds. Keep opening the minds of others until things change. One day, they will. One day, things will change. They 'ave to."

 _One day, things will change. They have to._

Those words, however small they were, filled him with hope. Things were going to change, and he was fighting for what he believed in one step at a time. One day, this war would end. One day, women would be able to become pilots. One day, they would share the same rights. One day, he would be able to get married to a man. One day, there would be no people blackmailing teenagers. One day, there wouldn't be the need to become a pilot and risk your life at a young age to gain information and save your family. One day, there would be no need to spend the last words to the woman you consider your mother on a boot full of lies. _One day._

 _One day until he left forever._

One day left. _Un jour reste._

Back at their house, the coo-coo clock chimes.

Midnight. _Minuit._

Zero days left.

 _Zéro jour reste._

* _Au Revoir._ *

* _Interruption tally (no, for once I wasn't joking): IIIII_ *


	3. g o o d b y e - e e

**chapitre deux:**  
 _•goodbye-ee•_

 _*Bonjour._

 _I won't be talking much this chapter because I'm well... in the blues. I'm depressed, and for obvious reasons._

 _I'm sorry. I know how much you guys love me talking._

 _It is important to note that this is a chapter of goodbyes. And the goodbyes will be short and rushed because that's how Birdie felt they were in real life. It's also because Birdie will never see these people again for the remainder of the story, so there isn't much to be said about them. They will be left and new people will be replaced in his life, for this is where our true story begins.*_

Just as was done the day before, and everyday before that, the sun rose from its bed on the horizon, seeping golden sun rays through the multiple windows on the East side of the wine brick and white wooden panel home that sat on the corner of Lawrence drive, including the window that filled in for the lack of wall decor in the dining room, and the large one in Matthew's attic bedroom that displayed the outside scenery for anyone who perched at the cushioned seat below that was decorated in various colourful pillows, and was engrossed in a book from the chipped painted shelves that bordered the nook, their noses buried in between the captivating bound pages.

Matthew considered this window seat to be one of his favourite places in the entire universe, and yet he couldn't help but slightly loathe it that final morning in Canada, for a plethora of reasons:

1.) The rising burning yolk in the endlessly blue sky burned his sensitive, bespectacled eyes, which were red and irritated from straining his tires eyes in the late hours of darkness under dim lighting in order to read and the tears that pooled in them the night before. Oh how pathetic he thought he was.

2.) One of the most absolutely dreadful and heartbreaking tasks of that morning was in choosing a single book to bring with him to London. One. Un. Uno. Eins. There was sparse room available in the various methods of transportation that would take him to Europe and into the centre of the storm of war, and so he could only bring one of the precious thick, tattered, worn, and sugar and old wood scented objects that substituted for the lack of friends he had as a child.

3.) It was bitterly nostalgic. Countless memories had been delicately crafted into the binds of the various novels on the shelves, folded into the pages, stuffed in every nook and cranny, breathed into the cracks of the wooden foundation, sewn into the patched homemade cushions on the seat, and imprinted onto art that decorated the walls- clearly made by the chubby fingers and creative minds of children- in the form of finger painted scenes and people, watercolored portraits, school projects, "potato people" drawn on construction paper in a rainbow of crayons, and a multitude of paper airplanes and balls of clay painted to look like planets hanging from the ceiling from gossamer like a babe's mobile. It used to be his and Alfred's shared bedroom. The wooden bunkbed was still there, except the towering top bunk was still impeccably made and waiting to be slept in, while Matthew's bottom twin bed was disheveled and littered with strewn rumpled clothes, important papers, documents, personal belongings, and his small suitcase that had remained half packed since that night.

4.) He had fallen asleep on it while reading ' _There and Back Again_ ' by J. R. R. Tolkien (for the second time) under his reading lamp and the dim illumination of distant glittering stars and silver luster of the waning gibbous moon, though he wasn't really able to pay attention to the magical printed words on the pages before his eyes because of the nausea in his stomach and thoughts that sounded louder than the story in his hands. For this reason, he was now not only particularly crestfallen, but also rather exhausted, irritable, and sore from sleeping on the uncomfortable bench in a cramped, squished, and awkward position for his tall body.

5.) Annie, Wesley, Phillip, Jacqueline, Caroline and Lincoln all sat on the floor of his bedroom watching him with big sad eyes, pouting bottom lips, and silence (except for the occasional loud melodramatic sigh from Jacqueline. God, she was so much like Francis.). It was only understandable that Caroline was there in his bedroom. She was setting up the bunk that her and Jacqueline would share on the opposite wall of his own bunk, and was currently attempting to mend a messily makeshift curtain separating the two halves of the attic for privacy. However, the other five cousins were in there only to cling to Matthew for the little time they had left with him, all the while asking endless questions and making him feel even more guilty for what he was about to do with their obviously dejected expressions. The lies were becoming more than he could handle and he wanted nothing more than to defenestrate them all out the window.

6.) Aforementioned blasted window was an _Eastern_ window, in reality showing a view that looked straight into the distance of where he was going. Of where he was going to 'die'.

In the end, Matthew ended up going for a dusty children's book in an old shoe box under his bed. It was the bedtime story Aunt Anastasia and his mother always used to read to him and Alfred. There would be little time for reading when he got there and a small library was supposedly in the base he was going to, so he felt that it would be wise to bring something memorable and irreplaceable instead.

The silent tension in the room was growing to a point that it was suffocating, like the humidity in California and Florida, but no one acknowledged it, including Matthew, who kept his back to his family members and continued about his pacing as if they weren't there, though that was difficult because he often had to sidestep them on the floor or ask them to move so that he could reach for something from the wall, a shelf, or a drawer. They all silently shared the same message- one of unwanted goodbyes, longing for more time, nostalgia, and more.

It was Jacqueline, who often had a hard time keeping quiet, that spoke first. "Are you really going to be a _pilot_?!"

Phillip sighed. "Of course he is, idiot. That's why everyone here is sitting here and moping. Well, not because of him being a pilot but-"

"-Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I know. I was asking out of excited disbelief, _idiot._ " The insult lacked its usual playfulness and was full of bite, most likely because the fifteen-year-old was irritated at having to see one of their cousins and best friends leave.

" _Guys_ ," Matthew snapped. "Please don't fight. This is the last day I'll see you."

"-For a few years," Caroline added anxiously as she smoothed out nonexistent wrinkles in the thin blanket on the bottom bunk. "It's the last day you'll see us for a few years."

"Of course." Matthew bit his bottom lip and gulped. It would be more than a few years. He would be gone even after the war had ended, but that wasn't something he was allowed to disclose.

His tone wasn't reassuring enough for Phillip though. "'Of course,' Matthew? You don't sound too sure about that."

Matthew shoved the remaining contents into his leather and tweed striped suitcase and forced it shut, locking it with his key, not turning to look at his cousin. "What are you trying to imply, Phillip?"

"I'm trying to imply that you are talking as if you are going out there and expecting not to come back. You're not going to die, Matthew. I swear to God if you even dare-"

"-Shut up, Phillip! There are children in here!" Caroline shouted incredulously.

"So what?! They need to grow up sooner or later. War is war."

"Are you really going to die, Matthew?" Wesley asked.

"No, I most certainly will not. I'm one of the best Canadian pilots there is in the force already. Don't you worry," Matthew said.

"Why did you hesitate then?" Jacqueline asked.

"I hesitated because I don't know how long the war could last. It could be more than a couple of years."

Phillip massaged his temple with one hand, the other in a tight fist. "Damnit, Matt. Why are you even going? You didn't need to," he said in between his teeth.

Oh how very wrong he was. "Well maybe I do."

"You make no fucking sense."

"Watch your mouth, Phillip!" Caroline shouted at her younger brother, glaring at him and clamping her hands protectively over Annie's ears.

Annie usually would have giggled and said something along the lines of, ' _Philly said a bad word!_ ' but she had rarely ever heard such bitter anger from her cousin's lips and remained wordless, clutching onto her hand-me-down polar bear stuffed animal that used to belong to Matthew and had been passed down, finally given to her as a gift for her 5th birthday the previous year. It was ragged, old, stained, and had lost its original softness, but she loved it nonetheless, especially when she had learned that it belonged to the person she looked up to the most besides her adoptive mother, Anastasia: Matthew.

Annie shoved Caroline's hands off from over her curved tan ears. "No, I want to hear! I'm a big girl!" She crossed her arms and tried to look as tall as possible, her big dark brown eyes serious, though she didn't succeed in proving her point.

However, sighing, they all let her be. It was their last day with Matthew after all, and Phillip was right. War was war. They couldn't hide Annie from the world forever, or otherwise she wouldn't be able to handle what would come.

Lincoln cluelessly continued to play with his wooden blocks on the floor beside Caroline's feet. He was only three years old and was oblivious to the current situation.

"Can I have your Hobbit book if you aren't going to take it?" Wesley questioned, receiving a scolding glance from both of his older siblings.

"Wesley Louis!" Caroline gasped indignantly.

" _What?_ I'm just as upset that Matthew is leaving as the rest of you, but instead of you guys, I know that there is nothing I can do about it and would prefer to enjoy the rest of my time with him instead of moping around like a bunch of pathetic thumb-sucking babies!"

The conversation was suddenly interrupted by Anastasia's soft reluctant rapping, followed by the bedroom door being opened.

"Mattie, sweetie, it's almost time to go. Are you ready?" She smiled sadly, observing the faces of the people in the room and immediately knowing what was going on.

Matthew simply nodded and hauled his suitcase and train case up, frowning when they were lighter than he thought. He was barely bringing anything with him.

His cousins all stood up with him. Even Lincoln, who eagerly wobbled over to Matthew and clung to his leg like a barnacle, as if that would make him stay for longer. Annie, who was even more persistent but also knew her own lack of strength against her cousin, chose not to, and had to silently follow behind him without a word of protest, for it was no use. Matthew would leave no matter what she did.

Once they reached the landing of the first floor, they all piled into the living room with Mathew's aunts, uncles, Walter (Anastasia's uncle), and Esther (Walter's daughter). The only people missing were Alfred, his father, and his stepmother, who all most likely couldn't have come even if Anastasia had shared the clandestine news with them, due to living in the states.

They had all gathered there together in the house small for them all too many times before: For gatherings, family reunions, dinners, game nights, parties, and more. But this time was different.

It would most likely be the last time Matthew saw all of them.

This was not a friendly family gathering, but instead, a ceremony of farewells and tight embraces and good lucks and tears.

Matthew realised quite suddenly that there really wasn't enough time. There was no more time to dwindle, to reminisce on memories, laugh about stories, and exchange final meaningful conversations. Time was up. _Time was up_. He had to leave his crying family and go off to war, knowing that he was lying to their faces and would never come back.

The final goodbyes were so bland, quick, and orderly that it was as if he were picking up food as he walked down the line of a buffet table. He went to each of them in a line, exchanging simple words that meant things that were far from simple to him.

It all went by in a rapid blur. Names. Faces. A sentence or two.

 _Hudson. Elliot. Evelyn. Eleanor. Lisa. Lynn. Walter. Esther._

 _Theodore._ "Say hello to Marie and her family for me if you ever find yourself in France."

 _Charles._ A straight face, lips tucked into a tight line. Serious, distant eyes. A firm handshake, a brief glance of a mix of pity, worry, and a stupid hint of pride. He was sending his nephew into the same type of storm that killed his father, brother, and his old self.

 _Caroline._ "We were the good kids. Now I'm the only mature and responsible one left!" (Phillip: "Hey!")

 _Phillip._ "You are coming back."

 _Jacqueline._ "Aim for the enemies' balls, Matthew."

 _Lincoln._ "Imma gonna miss you, 'Addie!"

 _Elaine._ "See with your heart. Not your eyes."

 _Anastasia._ They simply smiled and embraced each other, having already said all that needed to the previous night. This would be the last time he would see his mother.

She pecked his cheek. "I put some emergency maple syrup in your case."

 _Annie._ She was the last one. Her and Matthew saw each other as siblings. Now Annie would grow up without her older brother. Matthew kneeled down to her level and she hugged him as tight as her little arms could, her face burying itself into the crook of his shoulder as tears streamed down her round cheeks. "I'll help take care of everyone while you're gone even though I'm young because that's what you've always done. I'll perfect my pancake making techniques and draw lots of pictures for you. I'll water the plants and do my chores and brush my teeth and try my hardest with my studies and I'll be nice to Lincoln and mommy all the time and I'll even listen to Caroline!" She promised all of this in between sobs, clutching to her older brother.

Matthew simply cradled her in his arms and ran his fingers through her hair. "I promise I'll bring back a souvenir for you when I come back."

"All I want is for you to come back. I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too. But whenever we miss each other, we can look at the stars. We'll be miles apart but can still share the same view of the constellations at night. And when you look into the sky, you may not see me, but I'll be up there flying among the clouds."

"Can I share another thing with you?"

Matthew lifted a brow. "Sure. What is it?"

Annie pulled away from the embrace and pulled her polar bear stuffed animal up between them.

"Are you sure, Annie? You love him so much," Matthew said.

"I have a lot of other stuffed animals and I want you to have him, so that you have a piece of us with you. Do you remember his name?"

Matthew nodded. "Kumajirou, right?"

Annie smiled in response. "You gotta take good care of him, okay?"

"I will. I promise. Thank you, Annie." He took the bear in his arms and hugged his younger sister once again for a long silent moment before he stood up and smiled at her. "Stay strong, kid."

He pat her shoulder and gave everyone a last long gaze that was silent but spoke thousands of words before turning on his heal to the door.

"Oh and Mattie?" the young girl's voice questioned.

Matthew turned around and found Annie by Anastasia's side.

"You're my hero." The words hit him like a baseball bat. Matthew was never the hero. Alfred always was.

Matthew smiled. "Well what a coincidence. You're my hero too."

 _'As the train moved out he said,_  
 _"Remember me to all the birds",_  
 _Then he wagged his paw_  
 _And went off to war,_  
 _Shouting these pathetic words:_

 _Goodbye-ee! Goodbye-ee!'_

 _Goodbye-ee..._

 _Goodbye_.

 ** _Adieu._**

 ** _Forevermore._**

 _*Birdie always said that he didn't describe the goodbye as an 'Au Revoir', but as an 'Adieu'. When I didn't understand, he explained that the phrase 'Au Revoir' literally translates to "until we see each other again", while 'Adieu' has a more somber meaning of finality, as it means "until God". I don't think I truly understood its meaning until I had to say Adieu to him myself.*_  
 _-_

London wasn't like Ontario. Though it was warmer, it certainly wasn't much brighter or more lively. The frosty mornings of March that started with the chirping of birds and the scent of wild evergreen were soon replaced with full days that consisted of what seemed like nothing but rain. It wasn't necessarily stormy, but the skies were rarely clear either. They were covered with an umbrella of grey clouds that only added to the dull, drab, and less vibrant cityscapes of the county.

It wasn't only the weather, but also the landscape. Instead of lush forests of towering trees, snow capped mountains on the horizon, abundant and up-close wildlife, glacier blue lakes border by thick walls of vegetation, and the white blanket that seemed to cover his hometown for the majority of the year, there was rocky shores of jagged rocks, rows of busy people bustling on the pavement, little diversity of creatures that roamed or fluttered through and between the buildings that jutted from the horizon, and the lustre of the moonlight off of the Thames.

It wasn't as bad as he expected though, and the new scenery, people, weather, and places seemed to mostly intrigue him. It was almost like walking through history. He was surrounded by ancient structures and art and standing on the soil where the events in his old history textbooks took place.

Honestly, before he came to the city, he thought that he would never see the sun again due to everything he heard about England being rainy, but he was surprised to find that there were plenty of more sunny days, in which the city seemed so much more alive and full of colour, as if the whole capital had awoken from a dull trance once the sun rays kissed their cheeks. It was not the charming and magical image of Europe like in his fairytales, with castles, blue leafed trees, fairies, dark and enchanting forests, nymphs, and mystical creatures of every kind, but in Matthew's eyes, it could've been all of that and more.

Of course, it was polluted and obstreperous and dirty and crowded and cramped and not a place for an introvert like himself, but in between the rising of smoke from the chimneys, littered streets, and cacophony that could be heard constantly, there was some sort of breath-taking beauty to it. One could get lost walking down organised asphalt and stone roads in the utter grandeur and complexity of what was going on around them.

Matthew himself had never seen so many people at once, all fretting around with their own drive and direction like gas molecules. The buildings were trees but built by men and even taller, the cars carriages that swept people away, the leafs of paper in the streets like small islands of snow that glittered the pavement, the winding rivers moats for the solitude kingdom, Big Ben standing in the horizon like Rupunzel's tower, the glowing time keeping moon chiming for Cinderella, the cathedrals like castles, and all with their very own royals.

It resembled something Matthew could only describe as enchanting.

He admitted that he would dreadfully miss the snow. Blizzards at home were always the best. It meant spending time with his cousins and other family members, having intense snowball battles in the fields of snow on the streets- which were rarely plowed due to not being main roads-, creating igloos and walls of snow and ice bricks to use as forts, making snow angels (or snow stars as Alfred always used to call them), drinking hot cocoa with marshmallows and whipped cream at the cozy inglenook with a novel in his hands and a blanket embracing his form, sledding, ice skating, hockey, and most of all, eating pancakes and playing board games with Aunt Anastasia as she recounted dozens of stories for him by the fireplace.

He reminded himself that it was worth it though, and as his stories had taught him, change could be difficult at first, but could lead to new and unexpected adventures, people, and experiences. As he was also taught by his library of novels, a story often started with a new scene and big changes.

This was just the place for the first chapter of Matthew's story to start. However, he only laughed at this thought, because Europe would also be where the last chapter where his tale ended.

Well, at least, all that would be known about him would end here. The story of him as 'Matthew Williams' would end.

Matthew was stationed at the Royal Air Force Base in Uxbridge, about 18 miles West from central London, on the outskirts of the county in the Borough of Hillingdon. He was a talented and experienced pilot and had received his flight training at the RCAF (Royal Canadian Air Force) Station Borden in Ontario, the BCATP's (British Commonwealth Air Training Plan's) No. 1 Service Flying Training School, and so was thus easily able to qualify into the RAF (Royal Air Force), as many other Canadians had done as well.

However, Matthew wasn't in Uxbridge at the moment, or even in Hillingdon for that matter. While the other Canadian pilots that were transferring with him were now passing through Ealing and soon would reach the base, he had cut his journey off short in Westminster. He had stayed behind, gazing at Big Ben on the horizon across the Thames. The South African pilot, New Zealand navigator, Australian pilot, and fellow Ontarian (who was a radio operator that had trained at the same school he did), that he had become acquainted with because they were all a part of the BCATP, fortunately did not ask any questions as he stayed behind, probably because he was so quiet and was therefore easily able to go unnoticed.

It also probably had something to do with the officer that convinced them that he was requested to bring Matthew to a facility and have him make some fixes to some of his paperwork, and explained that he would escort him to the base as soon as it was completed. People tend to believe anyone in a suit with an official name and a badge or some form of identification.

He used to believe them too. Matthew was smarter now though, ever since a woman and man of such approached him a few years earlier.

He knew better because he was one of them too. A liar. A fraud. Someone with a mask, an official name, and a badge. All he was missing was a suit, but his RAF uniform might've as well been such, as they both acted like costumes.

Now, it was just the mysterious stranger and him. And Matthew, from the moment he saw him, knew who the "officer" was. Though he hadn't ever seen the man before, he recognized the thickness of his eyebrows, freckled pale skin that was tinted ever so slightly pink, slim shoulders, sharp-angled body, lean muscles, short height, striking emerald eyes, and slender pointed nose. As the man spoke eloquently, his words polite, formal, and prim, his humour sarcastic, and his personality serious, stubborn, and sensible, it all the more proved his assumption.

This was the brother of the woman who had approached him years prior. The similarities were uncanny. Matthew hadn't been informed of his name of course, for obvious reasons, but at least he knew of him.

"I'm guessing you know who I am," the man said, his green eyes still set on the Thames that Matthew guessed he had most likely grown up his whole life viewing, based on his accent. He had a properly straight posture and his tan pinstriped suit was crisp and clean. A green tie, leather oxfords, and a brown knitted sweater vest were paired with it.

Matthew simply nodded in response, having gotten used to his current situation.

"Good. My sister did tell me that you were a bright one." The man took out a cigar and lit it, turning from the view of the river and leaning back on the railing, one arm across his chest and the other around the cigar. "Since you already know that I'd be lying to you if I gave you my name and that I can't tell you it for obvious reasons, I guess I should give you something to call me for the time being to be polite."

Matthew stepped back and leaned forward on the railing, his hands laced together and eyes darting- not really focusing on anything in particular. It was really happening. Matthew didn't quite fully process what he had actually just signed up for. "I wish you could tell me your real name. It's kinda sad."

"Life is sad. Get used to it. This is war."

"I understand, and I apologise sir. I just... names are so _human_ , and I feel like I'm treating you like a robot. You deserve more respect than that, don't you think?"

The man shook his head exasperatedly. "Names are dangerous, kid." He blew out a thin stream of smoke in Matthew's face, making him cough. The man chuckled. "They can get you killed. It's safer this way."

"You're never going to tell me your name, are you sir?"

"Maybe one day, if you actually join us. I don't see an importance in names though."

"May I ask why?"

"Knowing one's name doesn't change a thing. They are still the same person." He blew out a puff, watching it fade into the air. "'What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.'" He waved the cigar around as he spoke, as if the words were really his, sending vermillion embers falling like leaves onto the pavement and a curving river of smoke that resembled the clouds of it coming from chimneys in the distant.

"'So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called, retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, and for that name, which is no part of thee, take all myself.'"

The Brit gave a rather impressed look, grinning at the boy. "Exactly."

"What should I call you sir?"

The man grinned and reached out a hand. "While I pride myself in having received the nickname 'arsehole', I've personally taken a liking to Dr. Sherlock recently."

Matthew took the hand in his and shook it. "It's a pleasure to meet you then, Dr. Sherlock. Are you a Sir Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle fan by any chance?"

"So I've found a fellow appreciator of literature."

 _*Au Revoir.*_


	4. n o r m a l

**chapitre trois**

 _•normal•_

 _Bonjour. It's your favourite Great Fritz here with another chapter on your favourite little golden Birdie._

 _I'm assuming that you are confused. Terribly so. Maybe you've straight out asked the pages in front of you, "What the bloody 'ell going on?" (As Dr. Sherlock has done oftentimes) Well to be quite honest, I've asked that question myself multiple times while writing this, because it all seems so unbelievable, like something that happens in my old magazines or in Sir Birdie's books._

 _Hopefully these next few chapters supply you with some answers though._

 _To understand, we will have to go back in time. Freeze and rewind. There will be many time jumps in this book because in order to understand the point of views of the various figures in this book and add theatrical literary purposes, I must make time nonlinear. So, for the next few chapters, we will go further into Matthew's past before continuing onto the future._

 _I know, I know. You guys want to get to the part with me. You want to read about the war, action and adventure, romance, and, of course- my awesomeness._

 _However, this would just bring us closer to the end of all of that and into an age of sadness, so I'd prefer to avoid writing that part for the time being. It's totally un-awesome._

 _Now, we have to go back just under two years earlier, to before the war, to when Birdie got wrapped up in this whole journey with a single conversation that would forever change his life._

 **June, 1938**

 _*Something I've learned is that the craziest things happen on the most ordinary days. They invade your life and infect your "normal". They become parasites leeching onto everything you thought you knew.*_

Exactly this happened to Matthew on the 17th of June. Even before Germany invaded Poland- even before the official documents were signed that started the deadliest conflict in history- the war had invaded Matthew's life.

That day, the weather was average. The conversations were average. The activities were average. Everything about that day was like any other, to a point that it would've passed as nearly eventless and forgotten in the boy's memory. It was a day that wouldn't have gone written in anyone's journals, perhaps except for the most thorough and anxious of people, who record their lives like data. Matthew was not one of these types of people though, and he preferred go record the amount of extraordinary things that happened in his life rather than the myriad of everyday occurrences.

A pair of similar looking boys- with starkly contrasting personalities- raced on their bicycles. Matthew darted swiftly and silently on his rusting pale mellow yellow one beside an enchanted crystalline pond. Meanwhile, Alfred scrambled nearly just as fast, though clumsily, head-on, and impulsively with bubbling and unconfined exuberance, on his bright red one that he had nicknamed 'Mustang' after one of the planes he had seen his aunt take off at Station Borden. It had become the wild boy's dream plane to pilot ever since he laid his gleaming endlessly blue eyes on its mighty steel frame and watched it soar across the blanket of the sky, commanding attention and dancing with just as much strength and gracefulness the horse it was named after had. It was, after all, "a plane for heroes" (as Alfred had once declared with his fist thrust upwards to the sky and a hand on his hip).

Alfred had called dibs on Anastasia's plane and though Matthew had fallen just as in love with her and her captivating magnificence even before his brother had, he had kept silent about his passions, like he always had. He knew that it was impossible for him to pilot such a strong, fast, and head-turning beast as well as Alfred could. Alfred could control it with confidence, speed, and when he piloted it, it was like he was a silver eagle, flying himself and dancing freely without chains. Matthew had chains though, and he knew that. He was precise, quiet, and blended into the crowd, but yet his soul still pulled to the flashy harlequin metal work of art every time.

In the end, he settled his sights for something he considered even better though. A Spitfire. He silently nicknamed his bike after it, though he knew it didn't match the British fighter plane's magnificent elegance and ballet dances it performed with perfectly pointed toes and muscular slender legs on puffy clouds.

Matthew rode ahead on Spitfire as per usual- despite the fact that Alfred was typically seen as the more athletic one- around the corner of their street, out of the suburbs, and down the winding road that embraces the edges of the thick explored forest like a river turned to stone. They routinely went across the cracked bridge that crossed over the falls and forcefully over a twining root that seemed to reach its long bony fingers for their ankles, trying to grasp at their pale skin.

They ventured across the rocky dirt trail their footsteps and tyres had built over the years that parted the woods and presented a breath-thieving view. Gorgeous snow-capped mountains on the horizon and the steep drop to the right of the trail that went straight into the creek were framed by the thin trees that descended and stood askew from the slanted earth, which was sprinkled in white flowers that freckled the landscape like snow. Together, they had worn the trail into the earth throughout their childhood in order to create a shortcut around the ditch that acted as an obstacle blocking what would otherwise be a quick route into town.

The white streamers that hung from Matthew's curled handles whipped back in the wind with his flaxen crown of silky locks and the leather bomber jacket Alfred hadn't seem to taken off since Anastasia had gifted it to him a year prior. This was a simple repetition of their usual routine and so they let the picturesque scenery fly past their view in trite insouciant familiarity as they continued the journey they took to the partially crowded marketplace nearly daily.

They had left their home just as the sun began its slow ascent in the sky, just as they did almost everyday of the week. Well, except occasionally on Sunday, when Matthew was unable to unlatch himself from his pillow and crawl out of the sheets, even in order to make it to the bookstore before it closed early for the day.

Luckily, it was a Saturday, and Matthew had successfully defeated the temptation of sleep that morning, unusually outwardly excited about visiting the floral shop owned by the sweet, plump, and cherry-faced Mr. Clark and his favourite diner/bakery. He occasionally helped at both of the establishments and had grown quite fond of them. From the moment Alfred had climbed down the top bunk and started to attack his brother in tickles and pillows, Matthew was not only awake but bright eyed.

So, when Alfred squeezed him in a tight bear hug and bound through the house, dragging him by the wrist and immediately moving his mouth nonstop, even as he stuffed a muffin into his mouth, Matthew wasn't quite as irritated and reluctant as he might have been on other days. He allowed Alfred to force him to go outside and at least _try_ to socialise with a single person ( _his age_ , Alfred had insisted), and for once without being bribed by a plate of pancakes or a couple of pennies.

Matthew was happy to get out of the cramped house he had been suffocating in all week, and even more happy to spend it with Alfred, who was unable to go with him until Summer came due to now spending the rest of the year living with their father, who had taken Alfred when he moved to the states and married Janus five years prior. Perhaps it was mostly because he had a chance to go to the charming bookstore he often spent hours in and stock up on novels to read, as he had already run out of new stories to devour, but he also longed for the feeling of wind in his hair as he flew down the lanes, as if he were flying himself, and finally ahead of his godforsaken handsome, always-noticed, always-loved, perfect brother.

He already planned what they would do, for they often spent the whole day in town on Saturdays. They could purchase a newspaper for Anastasia, oranges for Elaine, or perhaps even a paper doll or a rare chocolate bar for Annie. It was unlikely though, considering how tight their budget was these days, increasing their already high level of frugalness, but it was a pleasant thought nonetheless and the possibilities of it happening in the future gave him a sense of serenity within him.

And, as per usual, Phillip, his cousin, and Beverly, Madeline, and maybe even _Christian Clef_ from school were also probably parading the aisles of charming structures, strung together by clothing lines and colourful flags dancing as they hung on yarn. Maddie, Bev, and Phil as he called them were his three closest friends besides Alfred, who would most likely remain his best friend for the rest of his life no matter what.

Maddie often either read silently by his side or chatted with him about his latest novel over pancakes. Sometimes she would go ice skating and even play hockey with him and Alfred, though Alfred was still butt hurt over being beaten by a girl.

Beverley was wild but would also share deep conversations with him as they laid in the grass of the rolling hills outside of town. She was Matthew's go-to for love (it would've been his cousin Francis if he didn't live all the way in Paris), and she was the only one outside of his family and Madeline that knew about his lack of attraction towards girls his age. The two had both been accepting, which was utterly goddamn lucky of Matthew considering how little understanding and welcome towards the topic stood in societies all around the world.

Phillip would make the quiet boy laugh so hard he would snort (quite ungracefully) or spit out his hot beverage. He would also often take him to a secret dancing club that always fascinated the two brothers and attracted them with jazz music and rapid dances.

Matthew usually enjoyed his peaceful solitude, but for that day he was particularly exuberant, his cheeks pink with jolliness and violet eyes vibrant with energy. It were days like these that he was able to believe Alfred F. Jones was his twin brother.

That was all about to come crashing down though.

On that day of the week the plaza was slow and lazy in the morning. It only built a thin stream of people when the doors of the churches opened and young women in their bright Sunday dresses, cardigans, and gloves, men in their slacks and suit jackets, and children in flowery skirts, socks, Oxfords, vests, and caps went for brunch, some sporting rosaries around their necks or bored, somnolent expressions on their faces. They often contrasted the usual elderly crowd on Sunday that linked themselves together by the crooks of their arms with their canes, Bibles, and clutches in hand, and were much more reserved, believing that the mass was strictly to be only celebrated on Sunday.

These faithful families slowly built crowds as atheists and religious members that did not attend the Saturday mass only joined the slow procession on the pavement later when they finally woke up and decided to get a taste of the warm zephyr that carried a scent of evergreens, appreciating the golden sphere in the sky that warmed their cheeks by taking a quiet stroll through the streets as they hummed blissful tunes. As the sun rose more, groups of mingling teenagers joined in and children could be spotted racing their bikes, playing hopscotch, or chasing clumsily after a rolling soccer ball as their parents shouted heeds of warning. Cheap makeshift games of hockey were set up in the streets as everyone waited for the rink to open, enraptured toddlers reached out their chubby fingers at all of the spectacles, and all around people were aiding each other and mingling in a community. Schoolgirls and boys skipped and whispered secrets, couples danced in the square with radiant smiles, and even the most uptight of businessmen couldn't help but smile at the scenes and exchange welcome greetings.

Despite the fact that the majority of residents in the town were still carrying the burden of the depression and were struggling to make ends meet, all of the shops were open and the town was more alive than it was any other day.

Something else was alive though. Something other than the colour of the people's faces or the French songs that were sung in the plaza.

Among the teenagers in town, rumours were as alive, slowly burning the wick that lead to Matthew's bomb.

And there was something alive in the shadows as well.

Matthew saw it. Or more specifically- them. Two people he had never seen before that seemed to follow him across town as him and Alfred visited each stop. However, Matthew paid no heed to it though, as the two seemed to be enjoying themselves and blended in, fitting in with everyone nearby. Despite this, he couldn't help but become curious about the two newcomers and flicker his eyes to them, becoming more alert every time he realised they were always in his sight, even as they travelled a whole four blocks.

They kept their distance, dancing in the square or leaning casually against a brick wall as he purchased what he needed from the various kiosks in the marketplace. They chatted and admired the flowers outside of the floral shop as he helped Mr. Clark tend to the flowers and Alfred lifted heavy bags of soil for the old man or helped calculate different finances with his surprisingly sharp math skills.

They sat at a table across the cafe as Matthew and his brother sipped their coffee and hot cocoa and ate their pancakes and hamburgers Theodore- Matthew's uncle and one of the chefs there- let them prepare for themselves in the back.

Matthew even caught them wandering the aisles of bookshelves at the bookstore on the corner, as he read from one of the latest novels shipped and ready to be sold there, while Alfred was off talking obstreperously and goofing off with Phillip and some of their old childhood friends Matthew never really became close to. Leave it up to Alfred to live in a different country for years and still have closer friends than he ever had in Canada.

It was unnerving, and as Alfred and Phillip now talked to him about some certain plans, he found himself unable to focus, though he wasn't able to pinpoint that this was the exact reason as to why. His day had gone by normally. In fact, it went by perfectly, and yet he felt uneasy and almost paranoid, darting his eyes around in every direction.

Matthew hadn't registered a single word that came from their mouths and so found himself spluttering and stumbling as his twin and cousin dragged him off in an all too familiar direction.

To the jazz dance club venue.

The juke joint in town was a haunt with an open ballroom, dining hall that looked into the ballroom, and a stage with a band, complete with a mahogany grand Steinway and Sons piano polished and glittering in the warm crepuscular light from the chandeliers.

As expected on a Saturday, the joint was crowded with dozens of teenagers and young adults.

Dresses in various mute and dark rich colours, patterned with abstract and geometric shapes, were tight and sleek around the women's torsos from their girdles but blossomed from their waists, opening their petals downwards as they swung and moved to the music, revealing their bloomers underneath.

Thick short ties dangled from the necks of young men, occasionally tucked into a vest above their high waisted striders. The men sported navy, grey, and tan flamboyant zoot suits or racket jackets, leather squeezers or buttoned suspenders that supported their reet pleats with bluff cuffs, and tando zoot dicers or fedoras. Chains that hung from their coffee bags, and their wide square shouldered suit tails, flung as they moved.

Stacy Adams spectators that varied from oxfords to derbys to loafers, accented with a variety of buttoned coloured or black and white spats, clicked the floor. Mary Janes, peep-toed sandals, pinchers and violin cases, tennis shoes, and thick leather heels, adorned with brogue, ribbons, and lace joined the drumming on the floor.

And the moment that Matthew stepped through the large double doors of the club, he found himself hooked all again. Dancing was like a drug. The music entered his ears like alcohol in his throat. It was loud and he'd hide away in the silent isolation of his room the moment he'd get back home, but the laughter and joyful chatter was a pleasing melody that was able to create a mirage that tricked him into believing that he was actually accepted for a night. Walking through those doors was like stepping into the Royal palace as Cinderella. God, it was like the novels he read so often coming to life. The movements were like graceful ice skating.

However, this wasn't ice skating tonight. It was hockey.

Two of Alfred and Phillip's friends, Finn and Jerry, joined their party upon arrival. Therefore, Matthew had already had to bite the inside of his cheek over a dozen times to hold back the sarcastic comments and bites he so badly wanted to release. He'd already tripped twice- Finn had said that he had been clumsy like usual and his foot had caught onto his striders, but Matthew caught the sight of Finn's white and black leather spectators as he descended to the floor.

Matthew could handle Jerry. He was one of his cousin's friends and he was often compassionate to him. The biggest difference between Finn and Jerry was that Jerry teased everyone, including himself, playfully, while Finn targeted only Matthew and the weak or the different. Jerry was a jokester for sure, and sometimes he fell into the trap of being one of Finn's pansy, but he also helped him to his feet when he tripped, occasionally lent a music record to him, and, when no one else was around, would whisper to him about his secret adoration of literature.

Finn, however, was the type of person Matthew didn't like. It wasn't because he was obstreperous or wild or irritating- he was used to people like that and sometimes secretly enjoyed someone who filled the silence he always maintained. However, it was rather what came out of his mouth than the volume of his voice. He was a rude, coarse, unctuous, ill-mannered, rancid, and immature spoiled child. He was the type of kid that was not only tall and muscular like Matthew, but flaunted it with pride and walked as if he was above everyone else. The type that made messes just to make the employees work harder. Who had an ego bigger than his brain. Who pushed your books into the mud. Who aimed for your ankles in hockey in order to get the best player off of their own team so that they could be the best. Who bumped into you in the hallways and turned to you with a cheeky grin, saying, "Oh, it's almost like I didn't see you there!", before bumping into you again and walking away.

Sometimes he wished Finn's mouth would be as closed as his mind.

However, it was harder than one would think to get rid of him.

Alfred was well-liked and popular, but yet he was chained by peer pressure just like Jerry and often let arseholes like Finn tag along without speaking his thoughts because he feared becoming an outsider.

So Matthew bit his tongue and stalked with his brother, Phillip, Jerry, and the arsehat on the outskirts, some mysterious force drifting him closer to the dancing crowd.

Finn held them back though, much to Matthew's chagrin. His legs bounced in unbounded anticipation.

"You guys gonna ask a girlie to dance?" Finn's blue eyes scanned the crowd.

Matthew was uninterested in looking for a partner. At least that type of partner. Nevertheless, more likely than not, he would just end up dancing with Madeline or Beverly. However, it wasn't the same as what all of the other young men were hoping for. While they danced with girls to admire their beauty, strategically flirt, or have physical contact with them, Matthew was simply content with just having one of his friends to dance by his side knowing that they were both enjoying the same activity while maintaining a comfortable bubble of personal space.

Perhaps it wasn't because he enjoyed his space _that much_ or was happy being single, but because he just couldn't ever see himself having a partner like that... a partner that was a girl.

That was just Matthew's problem. He wanted to hold another man in his arms instead.

Finn took in more curves than just the gently rounded forms of the crafted instruments up front or the circular turns and spins on the floor, his tongue tracing his bottom lip as he blatantly stared in obscene directions and smiled hungrily like he was looking at a buffet of food to eat. God, it made Matthew want to sock him in the jaw. If only they were at the ice rink instead, and then he could wipe that cocky grin off his face and give him a taste of-

"Yeah. Ya know Alice?" Alfred said fondly as he spotted the aforementioned girl in a blue dress among the people. Matthew didn't miss the smile that formed on his lips and the way his eyes didn't linger for long, darting elsewhere. It seemed that he was the most polite one out of the bunch. He was proud of his brother for being respectful instead of an objectifying pig whose eyes wandered downwards.

"For sure. She's a real doll," Finn said. He sipped his glass of water and lustfully eyed her as if she were a work of art, biting his smirking lip. "Right, Mattie?" His smirk grew when he noticed how distracted and almost bored Matthew seemed with the conversation, eyes lost and uninterested. He nudged him more forcefully than necessary.

Matthew distractedly nodded his head and hummed. What was said distraction? Christian Clef. While the men and women in the room kept gazing at each other, women giggling and blushing or men tripping over their feet and words, Matthew did not have his eyes set on a girl. No, with his heart jumping to his throat, he realized with fright that his violet eyes had rested on Christian's handsome face and broad shoulders. _He_ was there. His Prince Charming was bloody there.

"Matthew, who ya lookin' at?" Phillip whispered in the boy's ear, smiling. He wasn't going to keep quiet about this, considering that he was indeed related to his romantic and oh-so-in-love-with-love cousin, Francis. He tried to cut Finn out of their conversation circle as he noticed his cousin's uncomfortableness around him. For he was getting quite pissed off with Finn and struggled to hold back his temper as well.

Matthew remained silent though, violet eyes fixating on that certain someone.

"So Mattie, who is the lucky dame that has captured your attention?" A smirk quirked on Phillip's lips, though it wasn't as menacing as that of the baboon left spluttering at being left out. His cousin may have not been aware of the situation, but he wasn't as extreme as everyone else.

Jerry rolled his eyes. "Stop your ogling and drooling and ask Bev to dance!"

This caught Matthew's attention and he whipped his head around. "I-I wasn't looking at Beverly."

And it was true. However, he quickly regretted his words. He was lucky that Bev was standing next to the person he'd been pining over for the last year.

It was better this way. After all, having a relationship with another man could've been considered illegal where he lived. Having these sort of thoughts was nothing but dangerous.

Luckily though, Alfred swept in and saved him. 'Always the hero who'll save the day'. Thank God. He would have to make sure to express his gratitude later on as they rode back home.

"Mattie was probably just in another world. His head is always up in the clouds. He is my brother after all," Alfred said. He flashed his pearly whites and laughed loudly, clapping Matthew's shoulder and smiling fondly with a look in his eyes that expressed a hidden understanding. If only he really was just daydreaming. How safe that would be. "Why are we talking about girls though? Talk about cooties!" Oh bless his brother and his excellent social skills.

"You still believe in cooties?" Phillip asking, chuckling.

"What? You don't?! Dude, what happened to our pact in the third grade?!" Alfred stuck out his bottom lip in a dramatic pout. "You pinkie promised me that you would never fall to the lie that girls lacked the cooties! Don't tell me you've fallen in love!" He joked, clutching his heart. "You wound me, cousin."

"You broke off the pact in five years ago when Madeline kicked your arse in hockey, therefore winning herself a ticket into our club and proving us twits wrong." Phillip laughed.

"Whatever. I don't remember that happening." No one missed the sheepish smile on his lips though. "Let's just go dance."

Finally. The moment those four words left Alfred's mouth, Matthew found himself walking- almost lilting- to the floor with his brother. As the songs of Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, and Django Reinhardt filled the hall, he found his troubles seeping away into his movements.

The floor was a music staff. It was a piano. The way the fabric of the dancers moved in the ballroom reminded Matthew of feather dusters sweeping across the ebony surface of the grand instrument, stirring up a sandstorm of the silver child of sugar and ash. The glossy lid was grazed in delicate appreciation and the frantic fluttering of their fingers across the keys and gentle pressure of feet against the polished pedals.

No one in that room was a master, but though some of the dancers' movements were out of time, they were so natural, candid, and carefree that they seemed in sync with the music. Though commanded by the instruments on stage, the dancers knew every song- to the point that they became a part of the ear's grand art. Instead of strictly tracing along the pattern of the music sheets, they bounced and leapt from each line to another- over the face and to every good boy that did fine.

Their constantly moving feet conducted the band. Every touch of a toe to the floor marked another beat. Every flick of the wrist magically chimed a note from the piano. Every swing altered the decibels of the harmony- crescendo and diminuendo in limbs that hugged close and stretched into the distance. Every leap from the ground was an attempt to fight gravity, silencing the song for a rest as the accompaniment kept an eye on the dancing instruments' performance.

A staccato note was not reciprocated in a sharp turn, but instead each sudden sway of the waist seemed to ring a popped note from the hipbone. It was not only this. A sudden dip of a woman squealing in glee became a cadence from the trombone. The closing distance between partners formed the deep richening sound of the brass instruments. The brushing of locks between slender fingers- the fiddling of fine bass strings.

Smiles adorning their faces like upside down F clefs and half rests that had been tossed off of the caps of their heads and left scattered on the staffs that made up the wooden floor. The curled women's hair like hundreds of hanging one hundred and twenty-eighth rests. The fluttering of lashes like trills and gentle sways like the legato waves in the air.

Even if Alfred had ditched him two songs in to bashfully ask Alice to dance and Matthew knew he would probably never be able to be held in Christian Clef- or any other man for that matter- 's arms without consequences for years to come unless done so in the safety and security of the delusions of his mind, Matthew was still absolutely exuberant. His feet were quick and he easily got right into the rhythm. Surprisingly, he was a pretty good dancer. And a much better dancer than his brother, who was even more surprisingly clumsy and uncoordinated on the floor. He really didn't know how to keep time.

Nothing could bother him now though.

The dances were wild and graceful and uncontrolled and magical and passionate and unexpected and genuine, each couple of dancers playing a constant game of surprises that built the ballroom up like a captivating book, wrapping its audience in. The various forms glistened in golden hues- brass and rose and amber. They curved like the bodies of bases and guitars and necks of saxophones or bells of tubas.

Sugar pushes, side passes, inside, outside, and tuck turns. Water skier slides, reverse swing outs, whips, and Texas Tommys. Lindy Circles and over the heads and baskets and swango and around the waist. Skip ups and Charleston.

Whole notes. Half notes. Quarter. Eighth. Sixteenth.

One. The stomp of a foot sporting a pair of Oxfords acting like the grandeur downbeat of a conductor with their baton. Two. Three. Four. One, two, three, four. One, two. Three, four. One. Two. Three. Four. One and two. And three. and four and.

One. -and two and three and four and-. One-e-and-a, two-e-and-a, three-e-and-a, four-e-and-a- one, two, three. Four is held throughout the stanza in a slur.

The pace changed like a lion. One minute a slow moving beast dragging its thighs with watchful, tired eyes but grace and might unyielding, captivating the eyes of the heads of wildflowers and attention of the tawny savannah grasses if no one was around, giving a performance though it is alone and merely living, its brass fur and key eyes stealing the scorching light of the attracted sun above. Then, another. The lion pouncing on its prey with an abrupt escape tone or arpeggio, its thighs and slender body a masterful art piece all too abrupt as it shoots by- rapid but enchanting. It's mane flying back with the air of a percussionist and roar sounding with the richness of a saxophone.

Adolescents took off from their partners' supporting paws like roaring planes into aerial productions.

In fact, it was such an astounding sight that Matthew believed the Lindy hop dancers were instruments themselves, and the musicians on stage dancers. The music had come alive before him, and to him, as well as everyone else there- this was what made them alive, so they paid it back in return. How such a minor thing could be so major in his life.

Major key. Matthew suddenly found himself in front of Christian and he could've sworn the harmony hiccuped like his heart did. He was so shocked at their close proximity that he stumbled over his feet for the second time that day. In an attempt to balance himself he clutched onto Christian's shoulders. The ebony-haired boy steadied Matthew, holding the crevices of his elbows with his large tan hands and looking down at his friend in concern.

"Matthew, are you okay?" Christian said with a drawl.

Oh how Matthew could look into those deep chocolate eyes for hours on end and never get tired of the syrup and caramel, amber and cinnamon, and bronze and gold valleys that cut through those irises. He was unbelievably handsome with a sharp jaw, strong shoulders, and dark features.

Matthew hummed before snapping himself out of his daze. "Y-yes, yes. I'm fine," he murmured breathlessly and oh- he should really get his hands off of him before this became awkward or Christian began to suspect anything.

A grin spread on Christian's face. "Are you sure, mi amigo?" He wrapped his arm around his shoulder and pulled him to the outskirts of the ballroom. "-'cause you look like you're about to collapse on me. Did you drink any liquor tonight, Mattio?" That muscular arm against the back of his neck and wrapping around his shoulders was becoming a distraction but he was thankfully able to focus and heard what Christian said.

Matthew shook his head violently. "Oh no. Oh heavens no. I'm quite fine, I assure you. Perhaps I just spun a few too many times."

Christian quirked his lips in thought. "Perhaps. Either way, you should sit down."

Matthew obliged, sitting down on a chair at a nearby stray dining table.

Christian bent down slightly to put a hand on his shoulder. "You should take it easy, Matthew. The sooner you take a break the sooner you'll get back to dancing. -We'll get back to dancing." He proceeded to take a seat next to his friend.

Matthew wasn't prepared for this and was quite flustered by his current situation. "N-No. L-Leave. Go! I-I mean, go and have a good time dancing and- ugh." He spluttered and sheepishly ducked his head. Boy he wished Alfred was there to save him from his awkwardness.

Fortunately for him, Christian laughed. "Relax, relax. I know what you mean. Don't worry though. I've been wanting to spend time with you for a while now."

"Me too. W-Well, I've been wanting to hang out with you- not me, myself. That would be weird. You know."

Christian chuckled again. "Don't worry, Matthew. We're chums. We can talk."

Matthew sighed, relaxing his shoulders slightly. "Yeah, friends." A frown at his own words. "How have you been lately?"

"My my, such an ordinary question from a far from ordinary boy. Can't you think of anything more clever?"

"Fine. Why did you cut down your tree only to replant a seed?"

"I knew you had brains. No one has ever asked me that before." He paused in thought, scrutinising Matthew like he was deciding whether or not to speak. "Bad memories. And I get rid of rotten memories by burning them and letting new ones grow."

"That was our place years ago."

"Oh I didn't burn those memories. I burnt... what stopped the creation of them."

Matthew glanced at Christian, who was now taking a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes from the pocket of his pinstriped trousers.

"Want one?" He asked.

"No thanks." He awkwardly smiled, not wanting to admit that he had never had one in his life and didn't know the first thing about smoking. Alfred and Phillip did it all the time and so did Aunt Anastasia but he had never really been interested in it.

Christian shrugged. "Your loss." It took a few tries for him to light his cigarette. "Where were you last week? Everyone here missed you," he said with a drag.

"I was teaching my sister how to ice skate."

"Couldn't your auntie have done that?" a voice suddenly asked.

Matthew whipped his head around to see Finn looming over the table.

He suddenly couldn't wait until the two of them went face to face on the ice again. Finn just had to ruin the one little ray of happiness he had in his life, didn't he?

"Oi, mind if I join ya guys?" He asked.

Christian was not like the others and glared slightly at his presence but was also too polite to tell him he couldn't sit with them.

Nevertheless, before they responded Finn had already made himself a spot between the two boys.

"I suppose so, but I'm better at it, I wanted to teach her, and my aunt works during the day." Matthew said, counting the reasons on his fingers. "Why?"

"Ice skating is for sissies."

"No it isn't," Christian bit. "Ice skating is for everyone. Besides, you've had to ice skate for hockey before so shut your trap."

"That was different. It was hockey. It was violent. Ice skating is some flowery princess dance shit."

"You're just jealous that Matthew can beat your arse at it. Literally."

"Anyways..." Finn glared. "Your aunt should be the one doing things like taking care of your sister or cooking in the kitchen instead of working."

"Why's that? My aunt is the one that earns the money in my household and she's great at her job. Jobs." Matthew shot a warning glance. Finn was really testing his patience today.

"It's nothing that a man can't do better."

Matthew slammed his hands on the table. "I'd like to see you try. Last time I checked you failed English and don't know how to fly a plane. What makes you think you can write novels or be a pilot any better?" He glared.

"You wouldn't understand, Matthew. You grew up surrounded by a bunch of dollies. No wonder you're so overly sentimental like the bunch of them. Fucking queenie."

"Ya know, having emotions is normal, Finn. You should try it instead of being a mindless apathetic arsehat," Matthew crusted.

Finn stole one of Christian's cigarettes. "You're a weird one, Matthew. A really weird one. You're like a fag or something, I swear." Finn smirked. "No wonder no one seems to like you. Or notice ya, greaseball."

Matthew gaped and scowled.

This was how it was. Tiptoeing around who he really was and putting on a mask. So instead of lying and giving in to society's conflicting views or arguing against them, he remained silent.

"Good boy." Finn patted Matthew's head before giving him a harsh noogie. His knuckles dug into Matthews's scalp and he had to hold back a growl.

Finn looked through Matthew and saw everything. He was empathetic and understanding but oddly used it to be manipulative instead of compassionate. Right then and there he saw the way Matthew struggled internally, though he remained seemingly nonchalant on the outside, and Finn took pleasure in it. "You know, Christian, I wouldn't be surprised if Matthew was a queerie. He probably fucks guys in his free time."

It was dangerous to not deny it. "Shut up, Finn. That sort of stuff is vile and straight up wrong." It hurt his heart to say but perhaps it was true. He had always believed that there was something wrong with him, even though he didn't see how something that felt so natural could be so wrong. What was the difference between loving a man and a woman besides their autonomy?

Christian hesitated but nodded. All of society nodded. They agreed with his mask more than what was underneath. "Yeah, that's quite the accusation, Finn." He seemed to be out of it though, and he couldn't bear to look at Finn for longer.

Safe. It was safe. It was safe and it was like a prison. It was safe and it was like a prison and he felt like a caged bird with chains anchoring its powerful wings down and no water to quench its parched throat so it could sing its melody.

Rapunzel was a bird, safe up in her tower. She wasn't happy though, and she couldn't fly, even as she was so close to the sky in her tower that she could look out and the earth would be shrunken to a painted map below.

Something switched in Finn's mind and he shrugged with his usual grin. "I suppose I was wrong." His dimples were carved with mischievousness and the steps he took back to the dance floor bounced with the scheming of the man.

* * *

 **A/N:** Sorry for the sucky and eventless chapter. This part was mostly a whole bunch of background information, establishment of tone, and me going a bit too in depth with the descriptions. I'll probably edit later. Thanks for reading!


	5. p r e m i è r e s

**chapitre quatre**

 _•premières•_

When Matthew stepped through the doors of the dance club, he hadn't imagined himself ending up sharing his first kiss on stage in front of dozens of people. Actually, he never thought he would ever even get a first kiss.

Today was full of surprises though.

Matthew learned three things in that moment.

1.) Books are liars. First kisses aren't magical. They aren't private or romantic with fireworks in the background or under mistletoe or surrounded by an aura of warm candlelight and violin music. They aren't stolen at the end of dates and happy endings and they don't make the world stop. There are no roses or chocolates or hearts or songs playing in your head or bloody glorious Alleluias sung by angels. Your heart doesn't explode and you don't get butterflies and you don't melt. It certainly doesn't end with you wanting more. And it isn't between lovers.

No, first kisses happen in front of everyone you know that is your age, at the front of a crowded jazz club with all eyes on you. They are stinky and drowned in dancers' body odor. They are forced. They are the definition of public embarrassment. They are shared with someone you aren't attracted to. First kisses are deafeningly silent and drag on for too long. They are holding onto an escaping lifeline that shocks you but is your only key to survival. They are awkward. They might turn soft and gentle or be shared with someone who is experienced, but they lack all passion and resemble two objects rubbing strangely against each other. Nails on chalkboard. They are empty and emotionless and make you want to pull away. First kisses are colorless and dark and bore your senses. They are as platonic as the kisses you receive from your grandmother.

They weren't bad but they weren't good. They were nothing.

2.) Finn was the worst human being in the entire world. He forced him to prove himself by kissing Beverly on stage as people shouted insults. Luckily, Matthew could act. Everyone around him believed that he was enjoying it.

Finn had stolen his first kiss and proved his fairytales wrong though. And he would never forgive him for that.

3.) Matthew didn't like kissing and never would.

He had one question though.

Would he like kissing if it was with a man?

Beverly whispered apologies through her lips and Matthew could've sworn that he felt a tear roll down her cheek. Not because of the kiss because they had shared many dozens of times before and they were comfortable touching, but because of what it meant. Because it was forced and humiliating and Matthew was being targeted. Because it was caused by hate to him and this proved that Matthew would never get to be himself and would need to put on an act to be protected. It was a rare thing for people to be supportive.

Yet they still both pushed closer and deepened the kiss, dragging it on longer and grabbing at each other to make it believable. Matthew cupped her face with his hand and wrapped the other around her full waist, pulling her flush against him as he had seen the other men and women do.

When Beverly finally pulled away, it was both chaotically obstreperous and deafeningly silent. A loud explosion that blows out your eardrums.

Their audience cheered and many young girls giggled and whispered among themselves, talking about how they always thought Beverly and Matthew had a thing for each other or how now that they saw that Matthew could kiss they wanted him themselves.

Christian was gone.

Finn was there, now sitting on the lid of the piano with a glass of wine in his hand and a malicious smirk on his face as he stole a sip from it. The worst part about that moment was that Finn still didn't fall for the act and Matthew was unable to spill that red wine all over his white button up.

Finn set his wine glass down and began to applaud, whistling to himself as he skipped to the "oh so happy couple".

Matthew wanted to run. Never had he been more embarrassed in his entire life. He couldn't run though or this would be for nothing.

Finn stepped up to the microphone. "Lookie here, everyone! So our little girly Matthew isn't queer after all! Well, unless... he really is a girl!" He gave a dramatic gasp and spun close to Matthew, mic in hand. "I mean, look at this hair!" He yanked his longer hair and the crowd laughed. "-And he is always so quiet and bashful like a girl!"

One of Finn's buddies joined in. "I heard that the queenie still sleeps with stuffed animals and reads fairytales!"

Matthew used all of his energy to not cave in on himself. He had done what they wanted and yet they still wouldn't leave him alone.

"F-Finn, s-stop this!" Matthew hated how quiet he was.

"Oh, l-look a-at h-him s-stut-stutter!"

"Really, Matthew is so much like a girl that Beverly must be a fag!" Finn announced.

"Shut up!" No stutter. Silence fell over the room.

"What was that, faggot?" Finn shoved Beverley out of his way. "Move it, slut."

That was it. Matthew stormed up to Finn and spat in his face grabbing him by the collar. "You better watch your mouth, Finn."

"Ohhh, getting protective now are ya?"

Matthew hit his palms against Finn's chest. "You are a real ass, you know? This is no way to treat anyone."

Finn stood there like a fish with his lips opening and closing in shock. He quickly wiped the look off his face with a glare though. "Wanna fight, girlie? You, me, and the sound of bodies to concrete in the back alley behind this joint."

Matthew had never gotten into a fight before but it seemed that today was a day of firsts. And he was strangely confident. His blood boiled and he had no restraints. Finn could mess with him but if he did anything to anyone else he would get it.

However, Matthew was also hesitant. He wasn't one for being violent even though he had the capability to be so.

This was different though. This time he would be fighting for everyone who was ever hurt by Finn Jenson.

"It's on."

No one stopped them as they marched down the stairs and to the back door, yelling at each other all the way.

Finn slammed the heavy door behind them, leaving the two in the cold. "I know you are a gunsel. You had your blinkers all over Christian tonight." He shoved Matthew's shoulders.

"No I didn't." Matthew glared.

"Yeah. I saw you when we walked in. You weren't looking at Beverly."

"Yes I was!"

"Please, girly. I'm not your weird blind aunt. I can see." Finn spat.

"Shut up. Don't talk about my aunt like that." He glared.

"You know I have the power to turn everyone against you." Finn approached like a lion stalking its prey until Matthew was against the back wall.

"Look, Finn. I don't want to fight. I just want you to leave me alone."

"Coward," Finn whispered into his ear. His breath tickled the hairs on Matthew's neck.

Finn pulled away and brushed the hair out of his face with the delicacy of a spider threading a patterned web of silver gossamer. It was so gentle that it hurt.

"Do you enjoy this, Matthew?" Finn whispered. The sound of it was like the hissing of a snake.

Matthew shivered. "Not in the slightest. Get off of me."

"Are you getting off on this?" He chuckled. "Disgusting." His lips brushed Matthew's.

Matthew socked him in the stomach. "You're the disgusting one here."

Finn stood bent over, clutching his stomach for a moment before he straightened his posture. Flames burned in his blue eyes. "You're going to regret that, Matthew. I was just trying to teach you a lesson but now you've made me mad."

"Don't do this," Matthew warned as he was once again cornered.

"Let's dance." Matthew caught the sight of a sharp silver butterfly flute being pulled out of his pocket.

One. Matthew ducked as Finn aimed a punch, hugging his torso and butting his head into his pelvis. Two. He turned sharply around, adrenaline pumping through his system to the beat. Three. Finn realized that he was in the corner now. Four. "That isn't fair."

Their feet moved like they were doing a violent waltz on hesitant feet. They swung their arms and turned their stances.

One. "This is my game. I make the rules." Two. They threw themselves at each other on the downbeat. Three. Crack. Shatter. Four. Skin colliding and the glistening instrument in Finn's hand tries to find a way into the chorus.

Two. Three. Four. One, two, three, four. One, two. Three, four. One. Two. Three. Four. One and two. And three. and four and.

One. -and two and three and four and-. One-e-and-a, two-e-and-a, three-e-and-a, four-e-and-a- one, two, three. Four is cut off.

The pace changed like a lion. Finn was like a lion. Except with knives.

The shadows in the dark alley danced and asked for encore. Cord after cord the duet played the polyphonic. Arpeggios and trills. Accidentals and appoggiaturas.

Their feet were clumsy and changed directions in escape tones, painting a harmony of swing syncopation and uneven beats. Sharps made flat. Aeolian and Ionian battling with fists. Ostinatos of repetitive pain. It was disjunct. Presto. Accelerando. Sforzando movements of limbs like weapons. Adrenaline racing like staccato.

A flute interrupting the drums and brass instruments by piercing soft skin. A sudden rest. A sudden silence.

Then every noise seemed to crescendo.

When Matthew stepped through the doors of the dance club, he hadn't imagined himself ending up sharing his first kiss on stage in front of dozens of people.

He didn't expect to have his first dance with a guy be a fist fight. He also didn't expect to see a dead body.

Minor key.

Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop. Something splattered onto Matthew's temple from somewhere above, causing the boy to stir, his aching eyes adjusting to the darkness that embraced his form. Blurry picture frames bordered his vision and he quickly shut them again.

It was bleak and grey, with the lips of a cold zephyr brushing his bruises and sending the odour of smoke and musty garbage through the alleyway. A violin sung a solo in the distance.

It was night and, at first, Matthew laid there groaning in confusion and brain fog and pain, not wanting to open his eyes and return to the reality that had left him like this- beaten and broken in a damp stinky alleyway littered in trash, shards of shattered caramel glass, the abandoned butts of cigarettes, and cat feces.

It was impossible to sit up. It hurt to breathe. He wished he could stop his heart from beating like he could hold his breath as it caused a pulsing pain in his chest. It was attempting to use the moment for its advantage and escape the broken cage of ribs that had trapped it inside and were now cracked.

Another scent hit the boy lying crumbled on the ground, making him flinch with shock. A choked sound escaped his throat as he recognised the scent as blood- most likely pooling from the knife wound he had received.

One movement at a time.

Drip. Drop. The liquid gave him some sort of peace, like blissful rain against his skin. It was a tiny kiss from God. He had to pry his blackened swollen eyes open through the pain. Once they were open, he sat there and didn't move any more. He instead focused on the drops that fell from above, watching as they grew larger and larger as gravity pushed them nearer.

The drops were dark and weren't like the clear tears of water he was expecting. No, they were small oceans of black and brown and red.

Matthew's purple knuckles danced across his face and he held the hand away, studying the liquid. He froze. Black and brown and red. And red. And red. And red. And blood. Blood from above.

Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.

His joints were stiff, his throat was parched, and his body exhausted but yet he managed to sit up with the help of the cold brick wall, still wet with the rain, his bruised back leaning up against it with a sigh of his spine. The concrete felt all the more hard below him. A hiss escaped his lips as a shard of glass dug into his skin.

He finally lifted his head, his eyes trailing up the side of a garbage disposal. His knees buckled as he rose his body to get a good look. He stumbled backwards with a faint gasp.

There lay Finn's dead body.

It laid tangled on the ebony lid of the disposal, limbs tangled and bent at odd angles in a little growing pool of blood. He- It- was limp, every muscle relaxed completely. It was fresh and Finn couldn't have died anymore than two hours earlier, seeing as rigor mortis had only traveled to small muscles like the eyelids and lividity was taking place but wasn't prominent. The blood in his body had settled towards the ground with gravity and his normally pink-coloured skin had turned a pasty white as the once oxygen-laden blood in the capillaries drained into larger veins and arteries. Among the bruises, purple-red discolouration had begun to form in dependent vessels. Small blisters were beginning to appear on his skin.

His muscles were deformed though. His legs were like jelly and his body was without structure. His bones were shattered and Matthew wouldn't have recognised him if it weren't for the clothes on his body, messy brown hair, and his somewhat identifiable face.

There was hardly any blood splatter, and the little amount of liquid that was there seemed to leek from the bottom of his supine body, especially from his cracked skull.

Surely he couldn't have done this damage with his bare hands. No, Matthew was not a murderer. Right? His memory was foggy and he couldn't recall how the fight ended but he knew that he would never go this far. However, he knew that the way his form now looked inhuman couldn't have possibly been caused by him. No, something else happened to Finn.

He fell. All of the injuries pointed to a fall. Surely a fall from the roof of the club building would've ended up like this.

One glance at his leg bending at what seemed like two different joints, spine that unnaturally curved to the left, and eyes that were wide and displaced in his skull made Matthew bend over and hurl on the concrete below.

It may have been an enemy's dead body, but it was a dead body nonetheless and he had never wished death upon the young close-minded boy. Granted that he probably wouldn't mourn, but he was horrified and continued to hurl continuously.

His body shook like a leaf as he caught onto his thoughts. Matthew never liked Finn. Finn embarrassed him in front of everyone and they announced on stage that they were going to fight in the alleyway out back. Now Finn is dead.

This didn't look good for Matthew's case. And he couldn't afford a lawyer.


End file.
